


gift (means poison)

by plingo_kat



Category: Night Lords - Aaron Dembski-Bowden
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bloodplay, M/M, Master/Slave, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:32:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Septimus knelt before a demigod.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gift (means poison)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grey_sw (grey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey/gifts).



> I also created a [Night Lords playlist](https://8tracks.com/plingokat/night-lords), because that's what I do when I'm procrastinating on writing fic. Do a bunch of tangentially related things instead.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy your gift!

Septimus knelt before a demigod.

He had, sometime during his enslavement, begun to narrate the events around him in the back of his mind. Developed as a coping method to distance him from fear and despair, it became habit as he settled into life as a heretic.

He did so now as he waited for the Astartes to speak. The top of Septimus’ head barely reached his master’s sternum at the best of times; kneeling, even with Talos bare of plate armor, the human’s hair would only brush the muscle at the middle of Talos’ thighs.

The gene-altered Nostraman warrior was in a rare state of undress. Bare from the waist up, his pale skin was marred by countless scars. They raised in bloodless ridges around the metal interface nodes implanted along his spine and skull.

“Rise.” Free of the vox, Talos’ voice was deep and smooth. The hair on Septimus’ nape stood on end.

“Lord,” he murmured. He kept his eyes down, strangely afraid as he was not when the Night Lord stood in midnight clad. Piloting a Thunderhawk into battle didn’t faze him, but attending to his unarmored master did. Strange, what humans could become accustomed to.

“Look at me, Septimus.”

Septimus swallowed. Was that… _patience_ underscoring his master’s voice? This encounter was becoming more unnerving by the second.

Even as he thought that, his body obeyed. A curious jolt ran through him as he met Talos’ black, pupiless eyes – not quite fear, not quite lust. It was, he acknowledged wryly, something like reluctant anticipation. Much of his life could be described that way. Reluctantly anticipated.

Talos turned his back as soon as their gazes met. Septimus stood as every slave learned to stand – without fatigue, without expectation, yet ready to leap to obey at a master’s command. It was rare that Talos exposed skin to the open air, and rarer still that he would do so in Septimus’ presence. He stared at the harsh jut of metal grafted into night-bleached skin, the strangely prominent press of bones underneath muscle.

When Talos reached the nook in the wall that served as his bunk, he sat and jerked his head. Septimus stepped forward.

He had been in Talos’ quarters for exactly seven minutes and forty three seconds, his mind informed him. Forty four. Forty five.

Over the slow pound of his heart Septimus could hear the breaths of a Night Lord: a dragging inhale-exhale that was more like a large predatory animal than anything human. He watched Talos’ nostrils flare and forced his own lungs to keep their rhythm, his face not to betray the jerk in his gut.

“On your knees.” Talos rolled his wrist, flicking his fingers at the space between his feet. “Here.”

Septimus obeyed, mind racing. What had he done, or not done, to be given this very personal attention?

There was another long pause. This close, Septimus could feel the heat coming off his master’s skin, a symptom of the monstrous metabolism the gene-altered warrior possessed.

A faint ringing began to echo in Septimus’ ears. He imagined that it was the chaotic energy kept out by the ship’s hulk, its metal walls and half-mad machine spirit.

“Turn off your light.” In the poetic arrogance of high Nostroman the phrase translated more as _’restore the darkness.’_

Even after years of exposure, the blackness was disorienting. Absolute, immediate, suffocating – Septimus blinked rapidly, green starbursts swarming across his vision.

*

Talos watched as the human shut his eyes. The scent of fear was thick in the air, faintly flavored with an undercurrent of musk. Septimus was not the first slave to be fascinated by his master, and he would likely not be the last; Tresus had enjoyed bloodletting to a nearly unhealthy degree. Had Talos been a less controlled personality, he would have killed his third slave the first time he merited punishment.

But this was not a punishment. Septimus knelt shivering at Talos’ feet while Talos felt nothing. No pleasure at his fear, for Septimus was not an enemy to be slaughtered – and no disdain for his arousal, because that was the entire point of this encounter.

A reward.

*

Septimus jerked at the first touch, nearly overbalancing as he flinched backwards. His eyes were open but saw nothing; they fluttered shut again, slowly, as he loosed the tension in his shoulders.

The tender skin above his collarbones tingled right before Talos reached him. Septimus inhaled sharply, fists clenched, waiting—

Warmth, shocking after the chill of the room. Talos’ hands were callused but not rough; like rubber, almost, thick and elastic over muscle. He pressed gently for an Astartes, but it was enough for Septimus to exhale on a choking gasp, struggling to swallow.

“Fall unconscious,” Talos warned, “and you’ll get no help from me.”

Septimus’ mouth twisted into a smile. “I expect… no less,” he rasped out.

“Then we begin.”

With those words the hand around Septimus’ neck closed abruptly. He bit down hard on his tongue to stop from making a sound, feeling pressure build in his temples and across the bridge of his nose, heating his face with every breathless beat of his heart.

_Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. One…_

Talos held him for twenty-three seconds before he let go. By the end of it Septimus was lightheaded, his trousers constricting and uncomfortable. He had only another five seconds to catch his breath before Talos choked him again – and again, and again.

He was losing his count now. Had he been in Talos’ quarters for ninteen minutes and fifty seconds or twenty-and-ten? His cock ached, chafing against fabric of his trousers. In the short bursts between that huge hand cutting off his airway, Septimus imagined that he could smell an intensifying of the sharp old-blood-on-metal scent each Nostroman Astartes seemed to exude.

All of a sudden it stopped. Talos’ hand withdrew, leaving Septimus slumped and gasping on the floor.

“Enjoying yourself?” Talos’ voice was cool, disinterested, almost ironic.

There was no point in lying. “Yes,” Septimus admitted, voice hoarse.

“Good. This is meant to be a reward.”

“I had guessed.” Septimus coughed out a chuckle. “Glad to see I’ve been serving well.”

*

His seventh slave, Talos had to admit, wasn’t lacking in courage. It made defending him to Talos’ brothers easier. It also made the reek of his fear sweeter on the back of his tongue, enough that he considered…

Talos weighed his longing for murder against his self-control. A quick thought of Xarl, blind and mad, killing his way through the human slave crew decided him; he would not act like that corrupted fool.

Septimus jerked again as Talos touched him, catching fingers in his hair and pulling him upright. The human stood rigid between Talos’ spread thighs, shuddering with every movement.

He would have to be careful not to break any bones. Talos leaned forward and set his teeth into Septimus’ flesh. The blood welled up hot and sweet—

_\--grey metal corridors—_

_\--flash of black hair and rounded hips--_

_\--soaring, laughter and fear and exhilaration, in this craft made for a warrior bigger than himself--_

—and Talos rolled it across his tongue, rich in memories and life.

*

Septimus let out a strangled groan when pain blossomed across the meat of his shoulder and the base of his neck. He had to grasp at Talos’ thighs to keep upright. They were like heated, yielding marble beneath his hands, massive; the length of Talos’ mouth, too, spanned nearly from Septimus’ shoulder blade to his nipple.

Talos’ ear was pressed against his cheek. He could feel the edge of a metal contact node set in Talos’ temple.

Something like a scream was building in his throat. He wanted to let his knees buckle, to throw his head back, but Talos had him immobilized. Tension coiled tight in his belly, the base of his spine.

Talos _licked_ him, wet and rasping across his abraded skin,

Septimus’ hips jerked, a whine clawing its way out of his throat, and Talos released him before he collapsed back to his knees. Those strangely smooth fingertips brushed across the bleeding teethmarks left beind, flaring the pain and prolonging the pleasure. Septimus knew that Talos was licking them, tasting Septimus’ life on his fingers.

He knelt there for long moments, panting. His count was gone, lost – he had no idea what time it was anymore, how long it had been since he’d been summoned to Talos’ quarters.

Talos shifted on his bunk. The thighs on either side of Septimus’ head moved.

“When you’ve recovered I want you to fix my helmet.” When he rose, Talos was tall enough to simply step over Septimus’ crumpled form.

It felt like a long time before Septimus relit his light and got to his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> You know, this fandom actually wasn't one I signed up for? (Our match was Tron: Legacy.) But I saw your other fandoms and they sounded intriguing, so I got the first books of each. I've now read two of the Night Lords trilogy and am definitely also going to give Ancillary a shot, so thanks for pointing me at some new fandoms/things to read!
> 
> The title is because: the German language.


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